The Chasm Dweller [part 1]

The ground trembled. Auren could feel it beneath his feet—an unsettling rhythm that seemed to echo within his chest.

He tightened his grip on the sword, both hands clasping the hilt with a controlled desperation. The chains shackling his wrists clinked against the movement, their cold, melancholic chime mocking him. Restriction had never felt more suffocating.

Today would be his first encounter with a Cursed Creature.

Yet, he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with them.

Cursed Creatures existed in six distinct ranks:

Tainted

Blighted

Wretched

Aberrant

Profane

Depraved

However, rank alone did not dictate their strength. Another crucial factor determined their lethality—the curse tier.

Just as Blesseds possessed blessings, Curseds bore curses. Unlike blessings, however, curses were often dormant in lower-ranked Curseds, only becoming more potent at higher levels. Their hierarchy was simple yet absolute:

Minor

Moderate

Major

Catastrophe

Abyssal

A Minor Tainted was a threat, but not an insurmountable one. Even a mundane human, armed with steel and enough resolve, could potentially slay one.

A Major Tainted, however, was an entirely different story. From that threshold onward, the danger became insurmountable for ordinary humans. Even a Nascent Blessed—the lowest rank of the initiated—would struggle against such a creature. Anything beyond that, particularly an Abyssal Tainted, was sheer impossibility for a Nascent. Even a Devout—the next rank above—would likely require assistance from a Blessed of equal standing.

That was why, in preschool, they were drilled relentlessly on the importance of moving in groups. There was safety in numbers.

Auren had assessed himself before. He was confident that he could handle a Minor Tainted, possibly even a Moderate one. If he dared to be bold—perhaps even reckless—he might claim victory over a Major Tainted as well.

And if this was indeed his first trial, then the likelihood of facing creatures within that range seemed reasonable.

But there were two problems.

The first was the sheer scale of its emergence.

The very land recoiled at its arrival. The ground trembled. Heaps of skulls and bones—so many they blurred into an unholy landscape—suggested something far beyond the strength of a mere Major Tainted.

Auren doubted that even a Major Tainted could devour so many beings, let alone alter the terrain itself on such a terrifying scale.

Size, after all, was a direct consequence of the creature's curse tier. Few among the Major tier were large enough to carve their presence into the very land. That kind of grotesque enormity was reserved for Catastrophe or Abyssal curses.

The second problem?

He was bound.

But there wasn't a choice.

He had died twice now—if he was keeping count correctly.

And he was slowly uncovering something terrifying about the curse he had received.

The fear of death was an unkillable foe. At least, for someone at his level.

But he hadn't expected to face that fear at just sixteen.

What he needed wasn't to banish the terror gnawing at his insides. He needed to move forward despite it.

Never cower. Never turn your back. Never run.

…Though, the last one was subject to certain circumstances.

'Hell, if I have no chance of beating this, I'll run.'

His hands trembled as the creature pulled itself free from the scattered heap of bones.

The first thing he saw were the spikes—long, jagged, and twisted outward like the spears of a thousand slain warriors.

His breath trembled. His legs edged backward on instinct as the full horror of the beast was unveiled.

It was a hulking mass of jagged iron and sinew the size of a small cabin, armored plates fused with grotesque, sinewy muscle to form the entirety of its body.

Its shell, an unholy fusion of rusted metal and obsidian-hued hide, bristled with the same vicious spikes that first caught Auren's eye.

Each step it took sent shards of shattered bone and rusted debris scattering across the wasteland.

Then came the sound—

A guttural, churning growl that rippled through the feeding ground, a war drum pounding against the battered ruins around it.

And then—its face.

Or what could be called a face.

A pit of endless hunger, a yawning maw lined with jagged, uneven teeth, glistening with the remnants of its last feast.

Its black, reptilian skin stretched taut over its monstrous frame, each limb a siege weapon, encased in chitinous plating, ending in claws long enough to rip through fortress walls.

This was no beast.

It was ruin given form, an engine of war birthed from nightmares.

Auren's grip on his sword wavered. He swallowed hard.

'There's no way this is a Tainted. No way in this maggotworld!'

The answer was obvious but running up a steep incline while bound was suicide.

So, Auren thought of a different, even more idiotic idea.

'The spikes on its back…'

What if he used them like a ladder—climbing his way up—

And leapt out of the chasm?

It wasn't the best idea—it was reckless and borderline suicidal.

But before Auren could reconsider, before he could settle on another decision, the creature lunged.

A blur of clawed hands tore through the air, slashing toward him with murderous force.

Auren threw his hands upward, bracing himself—

And then—impact.

He caught the attack head-on, blocking the strike.

Sparks exploded into the air.

The shriek of metal against metal split through the chasm like a dying scream.

Auren felt it immediately—his muscles tearing from the sheer force of the blow. His arms screamed in protest.

He staggered back, his body threatening to collapse under the pressure—

But before he could even catch his breath, another strike came.

And then another.

He barely blocked the second, his sword trembling as it absorbed the brutal force. Then came the flurry.

The abomination unleashed a relentless barrage, its clawed sword crashing down like a storm of black iron.

Auren gritted his teeth, pushing through the burning agony in his muscles. Despite the shredding pain, he was fast enough—sharp enough—to block every single one.

The creature's movements were erratic—jagged, primal, feral. It fought like an unleashed predator, driven by raw instinct rather than technique.

That was where Auren had his edge.

It was too rough. Too unrefined.

Not something he was taught—just something he understood. Common sense.

An enemy that fought without pattern or control was, in a way, easier to manipulate. Easier to predict.

…Though predicting such chaotic attacks was strenuous as hell.

And Auren was painfully aware—he didn't have the strength to keep this up for long.

He parried, sidestepping as his legs adjusted, inching forward, keeping his movements measured. Controlled.

Every clash of steel, every step, was positioning.

The moment the creature recoiled, its clawed hand pulling back for another devastating swing—

Auren moved.

He darted forward, slipping past its defenses—and drove his sword downward.

Straight into the space between its legs.

Or rather—he almost did.

His blade rebounded harshly, the impact jarring his arms as though he had struck solid iron.

His eyes widened.

The abomination lifted one of its massive legs—

And then—

It came crashing down toward him.